Sand and Song

Wooshing of the wind is timed to the beat of her galloping skirt. Ears would materialize the silence of words as she fall back on memories, proof of her existence of chance beginnings proof of pain; the crumble of sea shells under the weight of bare feet, all sense of time lost all of it on her senses every fragment, ever tear lost, lost, lost. All the same. Hours pass like minutes into a listless fog while she wait for the black marauder who, for wily purposes return for a final bow from behind a dark curtain No, stone throwing not allowed. Only money, only flowers. Broken glass and sand spill through bloody fingers. Overhead, a flood of flapping wings applaud in unison; a crowd of memories like a cloud. She, dancing atop his feet a sole-to-sole sway, pressed limb to limb waters crept, now slowly creeps over hers only erasing steps and soft chanting lips as with the flood of wings flown northern, words that would've mattered time, wind, sand, song like a half-stifled sneeze now vanishes into ether pressure released -karma